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THE NORMAL LIFE IS THE 
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THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 






BOOKS BY 

James Cloyd Bowman 
THE KNIGHT OF THE CHINESE DEAGON 

THE ROMANCE OF A YOUTHFUL KNIGHT WHO 
DREAMED A PRODIGIOUS DREAM OF WORLD 
CONQUEST. 

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THE GIFT OF WHITE EOSES 
(Third revised edition.) 

A TRAGEDY IN WHICH THE VILLAGE GIVES OF ITS 
YOUNG MANHOOD AND ITS YOUNG WOMANHOOD 
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The Gift of White Roses 



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By 
JAMES CLOYD BOWMAN 



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THIRD REVISED EDITION 



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Boston New York Chicago 








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Copyright 1905, 1913 and 1914 
By James Cloyd Bowman 




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TO ALL THOSE WHO HAVE COMPASSION UPON THEIR 
ERRING BROTHERS AND SISTERS, WHO ARE PRONE NOT 
TO CAST A STONE BUT TO GIVE A LOAF AND A PILLOW, 
THIS STORY IS DEDICATED. 




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THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my dear one, 
Sleep, sleep, sleep; 
The sun with drowsy eyelids drifts adown the bound- 
less deep; 
The cares of day grow weary as the evening shadows 

creep ; 
And silence loiters everywhere and lulls the world to 
sleep ; 

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my dear one, 
Sleep, sleep, sleep. 

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my dear one, 

Sleep, sleep, sleep; 

The angels will with gladsome joy the nightly vigils 

keep, 
Will waft you to their isle of dreams with balmy 

buoyant sweep, 
While mystic music mellows every murmur into sleep ; 
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my dear one, 
Sleep, sleep, sleep. 






The father tried to hide his thoughtful care, 
As thus the anxious mother o'er and o'er 
Crooned to her first-born babe this tender strain; 
For baby pain had plucked away repose ; 






1 



M 



WHITE ROSES 

But song, the Orpheus soother of the soul, 
At length o'ercame the weary throbbing brain, 
And stilled it into soothing peaceful dreams. 

The spring had come with all its heavenly bliss; 
The birds, the winged angels of the earth, 
With their return, had drawn another thread 
Across the woof of years; the flowers unveiled 
Their fairy faces to the coaxing sun, 
And whispering spread the season's melodies, 
That man might easier catch them ere they fled; 
The forests shed their gladness everywhere, 
Till all the world was focused in a smile. 

The baby silenced from its fretful care, 
The mother raised her voice in accents soft : 







Mother. 
Yes, this is spring, — within the cradle and 
Without the door. We should indeed be glad; 
These beauteous cherubim of heavenly light 
Would so enfold us that, though weak and blind, 
No sin could evermore come near us, would 
We but allow them. Look, my husband, here 
Within the baby crib, — this holy form, 
This angel-molded house of clay, this face 
That knows but sweetest innocence and peace. 
We ought forevermore to keep it thus, 
To guard it as a frail unfolding rosebud, 
Against the lurking parasites of sin. — 
And look beyond the cradle, where the sun, 

[8] 





THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

The bridegroom of the day, with sweetest smiles, 

Now lingers down the darkening aisles of night. 

He sheds his parting perfumes everywhere, 

Until the world is all aflood with joy. 

Ought we not thus, in love, prolong our spring 

Of married happiness, that this, the joy 

And sunshine of our home, may find no blight 

In the environment we've formed for her? 



Father. 
We ought, not only ought, but will, dear wife. — 
But wait a minute; — Here, this pledge from me, 
A token that our constant aim and joy 
Shall be in happiness for her, ourselves, 
And God. Take this, a new-blown nosegay, plucked 
With loving care, these roses, snowy -white; 
Take these, and wheresoe'er you see again 
Their likeness, think of them and this my vow. 



The twilight lengthened; and the maid of night, 
The moon, through all the etherial vaulted sky, 
Relit the million tapers of the night, 
And everything was peace and quiet cheer. 

Only a few more years, 

Only a little while, 
Our darling daughter that's wrapped in dreams, 

Will be in all a sunlit smile; 
She'll be the fairest lily-bell 

That blooms in many a mile. 

[9] 





THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 



I 



II 

When the cradle bed has flown, 

And the baby feet have grown, 
And the tiny steps have lengthened on the floor, 

When the darling form goes bounding 

To the school -bell's call resounding, 
Then the world of fear and doubt peers through the 
door. 



'Twas thus the mother sat and mused alone, — 
The little girl's first day away at school. 
The sunny smile and laughter now was hushed, 
The noisy prattle stilled within the home, 
The thousand little cares and joys were flown, 
The playthings stowed away forevermore 
In silent waiting for the vanished hand; 
And mingled hopes and fears played hide and seek, 
About the quietude within the room, 
That raised forebodings in the mother's breast, 
Throughout the long-drawn quiet restless day. 
At length, the evening came, and with it came 
The daughter, radiant with sunny charms, 
Babbling with laughter, brimming o'er with joy 
And elfish prattle. Soon the twilight fell 
And silenced the wild wonder of the day, 
And wrapped the wearied child in hushed repose. 
But still the mother's mind was ill at ease; 
A misty halo hid the evening star, 
The star of peace and hope within her breast. 
[10] 





v 



I 



i 
I 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

The fall had come in radiant rainbow gleams, 
Had cast its hazy veil o'er all the land, 
Its finger streaked the leaves with colored light, 
And yet the fear of winter made them sigh 
And shiver in the cooling autumn breeze. 
They sat upon the porch beneath the moon, 
That shed its beams along the parted clouds 
That brushed its face. The wife at length began: 

Mother. 
My husband, I am sad and troubled much; 
I fear our darling will go wrong. Our town 
Is wicked, oh so wicked. How I wish 
We lived far out in some lost wilderness 
That Satan had not yet debased. 

Father. 

That wish 
Fits only heaven, for heaven's the only place 
That's banished him. But why be anxious, Dear, 
You'll feel at ease when 'tis morning and the cares 
Today has brought have slipped away in sleep. 

Mother. 
I wish I could; but still, I somehow fear 
I shall not cease this longing till the years 
Have ripened this fair bud to womanhood, 
For everywhere lie snares that crouch and wait 
To blight the life that now is pure and fair. 

[ii] 



.y 



l 



I 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Father. 
That's why you should not fear; with soul so pure 
And form so perfect, she could stem the throne 
Of Satan with no fear of harm. 

Mother. 

With form 
So fair, — I wish that she were homely as 
She's fair. Her beauty is the very worst 
Of all her enemies. 

Father. 

You'd have her 
Unadorned, with spinster's visage. But I'm glad 
She's perfect as a sculptured angel. — 
Were't not for you, I'd wish myself again 
A boy, her age, that I might grow beside her 
With but one thought, to woo and win her. 



Mother. 



Yes, 



Who knows, the saloon-keeper's son may even now, 
Be thinking to himself, the very thought 
You thus have counterfeited, who can tell? 



Father. 
I know you're ill, to think of him, that's reared 
As is a captive condor, in a cage 
Where he can never rise and soar among 
The mountain peaks of lofty thought, or live 
[12] 








THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Aright the instincts of his inmost soul; 
To think that he should dream of her, is weak 
And foolish; better contrast heaven and hell, 
For they would sooner woo and wed than these. 

Mother. 
You cannot tell, for he is wondrous fair, 
As fair almost as our own precious girl; 
Besides, the strange and monstrous ofttimes happen. 
Would it were as impossible as 'tis 
Within your certain thought. — Were I a man — 

Father. 
Were women men, they'd nevermore be angels; 
But— 

Mother. 
Say what you will, were I a man, 
I'd see the one saloon, one hive that swarms 
With bees, that carry treasures in, and then 
Unlike the bees are sent away to bear 
The curse of hell upon their dazed foreheads, — 
I'd see it closed. 



For all the town. 



Father. 
You'd furnish gossip then 

Mother. 

Be as it would, I'd do it. 
[13] 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Father. 
It cannot harm us; furthermore, it needs 
Must be, — it lightens taxes. And it's like 
Another place of business; you go in, 
It takes you not. 

Mother. 
If that were only true? — 
It may, in time, rob us of all our joy. 

Father. 
Enough! We'll neither be convinced. What use 
Of being, now, thus drawn to useless quarrel? 



The dark clouds thickened; and the moon blew out 

The million tapers of the sky, and bivouacked 

On the billowy bosom of the night. 

And so the mother, half in anger, half 

In fear and mingled hope, was lost in dreams. 

Who can tell what the years will bring? 

Who can tell? 
What will become of our darling girl, 

Who can tell? 
No one knows save the Father above; 
Yet, we trust that God is only love; 
But what will become of our little dove, 

Who can tell? 




., 



n 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

III 

Out of the way of the world 
Of its buffet and babble and scorn; 

Out of the way of the world, 
Of its wearied and wasting and worn; 
To the hearts that in unity share 
Every mingled pleasure and care, 
To the sympathy no-where-else lent, 
To the only true lasting content, 
To the cheer and the joy and the love, 
To the sunshine strewn bright from above; 

Out of the way of the world, 
Though however wide we may roam, — 

This alone is home. 



V 



Father. 
Yes, this is home, the far-famed oasis 
Within the parching desert world; the lone 
Unfailing shelter for our lives of storm; 
The compass and the comfort of our souls ; 
God's illustration of his boundless love. 
Yes, this is home, for concord cheers our hearth, 
And, too, our toil has yielded plenteous fruits 
That we shall never want, and God has filled 
Our cup to overflowing, in our child. 



Mother. 
Yes, we at last are free from every care; 
And comfort smiles upon our future path 
[15] 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

With tempting radiance. Yes, my fears were foolish, 

For she is as fair as any one 

Could wish, as gentle, modest, and as pure, 

As could be dreamed of anywhere. Her tastes 

Would fit her guardian angel's glad approval. 

Truly, this is home. 



I 



x 



Father. 

Listen! her voice; 
Let's in and hear her sing. — We'd have you sing 
Again, the song we love the most to hear, 
The song, of all, that is appropriate. 



What? 



Mary. 
'Home Sweet Home"? 



Mother. 

Yes, that's the one of all 



We love the best. 



M 



Mary. 

Then 'tis of all, the one 
I ought the most to sing. You are so kind 
To me, that I am ever pleased to do 
Your bidding. But we must sing together, then 
'Twill be of all sweet songs most beautiful, 
Of all sweet songs the most appropriate. 



Father. 
Come on, wife, this is comfort, this is home. 
[16] 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 



Mother. 
Yes, really it is, with naught to mar. 

(All sing) 
' 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home' ! 




THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 



IV 

It was the time when wild flowers blow, 
When perfumes pure and rare 
Were wafted out on every air, 

It was the time when lilies grow 

With all about atune to them, 
With every thought the purest gem, 

With naught of discord or of woe. 

It was a day when Nature caught 

A million years within an hour, 
When one beyond himself might tower 

To grasp the Infinite in thought. 

It was a day in Nature's reign 
That never could return again, 

Save in remembered fancy wrought. 

It was an hour when every clod 

Seemed focused in one perfect dream, 
When Nature all aglow did gleam 

With untold images of God; 

When life was poesy and song, 
When self was held aloof from wrong, 

For Love, triumphant, walked abroad! 









& 






Mary. 
What shall I do? What shall I do?- 
It matters not. When it is through, 
'Twill break two hearts, whate'er I do. 
Thus dreaming pensively, alone she went; 
[18] 







THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

The clover bowed its head as she passed by, 
The roses drooped in meekness as she came, 
All nature paused, entranced by her fair form, 
As lightly, on the wings of morning air, 
She softly tripped, the one flower wondrous fair 
Of all the spring. 

John. 

Come out to me, my Love, 

Come out, come out to me; 
The world's a-May, do not delay, 

But come, come out to me. 
Life's in the spring, the birds a-wing, 
And Love is king, and Love is king! 

Oh come, come out to me. 
My heart will break, unless you wake, 
Unless you come, my soul is dumb, 

Unless you come to me. 
Come out! 



'Twas thus the lover wrapped in raptures wild, 
Within the sheltering covert of the wood, 
Mused but of her, who lingering, loitering came, 
Who lingered long, half -wishing she had stayed. 
And still she could not stay. Her heart was here, 
Her home was there; her love was here, although 
None knew. 

John. 
She comes! my heart's aglow! oh, why 
Does she thus linger, when my every hope 
Is in her blushing smile? See, now she stoops 

[19] 



y 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

To pluck a daisy from its nodding stem; 
But she is queen of every flower that blows. — 
She comes again in artless grace. — 0, Love, 
The minutes are long years when thus you linger. — 
That's not a tear upon your cheek I see? — 
You would be smiles did you but know this heart 
Aright. — Do not thus pain me now, I die 
To see you smile. 

Maey. 
Then, here's a smile for you. — 
There, is your heart content? 

John. 

Yes, Love. 
Mary. 

Then I 
Am glad I feigned it, though it pained me through. 

John. 
Don't say it, Love. 'Feign' blights my hope. — 

The sun 
Is dark, the air is cold, the birds are hoarse, 
For that one word. 

Maey. 
That word was not for you; 
Could you but read my thoughts, then never maid 
Were truer in her love than I. 

John. 

Oh, now 
The sun is bright, the air's surcharged with scent 
[20] 



Of clover meadows, and the birds are drunk 
With honeyed song. — But why thus sad? 






y 



Mary. 

Sad's not 
The word to use; say throbbing piercing pain. 
I cannot move but some dear heart will break. — 
My parents, did they even dream that you 
Were here, would rather I were dead, than have 
Me cast one coldest glance your way. — And I 
Were I to now go back to them, two hearts, 
Two loving hearts would thus be crushed. What can 
I do? Think you I ought to smile when hearts 
Are breaking for that smile; think you that I 
Should weep, when hearts are drowning in the tears? 
Would that my face were double as I force it, 
That this might smile for you, and that for them. 

John. 
Yes, this is hard; I cannot see why they 
Thus envy me, who never did them wrong, 
For though I smile on you, the smile is pure. — 
They say I'm reared upon the greed of blood. 
It is not true! my mother is a Christian, 
Meek as any saint. She's daily urged 
That father close his shameful, wicked business, 
For her sake, and her son's. She is a Christian, 
Though she's shunned by all her kin. The curse 
Is on us for his business; and on me 
Thus doubly, for at times, an unquenched thirst 

[21] 








THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Has come — Fve seldom yielded though — but since 

I first beheld you, blushing fairer than a rose, 

Since first you smiled on me your smile of love, 

The thirst is quenched; and all I ever crave 

Is just your angel presence near. For you 

Are in my thought a million times a day, 

Are everywhere, in everything I see. — 

But why this trembling like a captured dove? 

Mary. 

Methinks I see some form there, moving near. 

Is it my father, who perchance mistrusts'? — 

No, it is but a listless, grazing cow. — 

But we must farther out into the forest, 

Where no one's eye save God's alone can see; 

And as He knows our hearts, He will rejoice, 

Nor spread the gossip on the winged air. — 

We go. — Pluck there for me those nodding glowing 

Violets. 

John. 
They do not glow. Could you 
But contrast them with your bright sunny smile, 
You, too. would say that they are common yellow. 

Mary. 
There, pluck that dainty dreamy Wind-Flower 
Trembling e'en in this faint breeze, that waxen 
Moon-beam, tucked away by night's forgetful hand. 

John. 
'Tis fair, but you are fairer far than this; 
You are the waxen smile of heaven, that angels 

[22] 






THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Breathed o'er your birth hour, and then in awe 
Of beauty, durst not claim again, for fear 
Of robbing earth and me of all that's fair. 

Mary. 
Waste not, thus wild and lavishly, on me 
These love perfumes, distilled from your true heart. 
I'm not more fair as woman than you as man. 
Heaven made us each the other's counterpart. 
Yet beauty in the form is naught unless 
It's mantled o'er a lovely heart. But we 
Most happily, are both thus wrought and nerved. 

John. 

You're quite immoderate to paint us thus; 
Though I am sure that we were wed in heaven 
The selfsame hour in which we both were born. — 
But this is paradise! 

Mary. 

Here, this Spring Beauty. 



John. 
Yes, it was named aright, 'tis beautiful, 
'Tis even so; but you, my Love, are Beauty; 
And 'tis chaste, but you are Chastity. 
Would they had named you sweet Angelica, 
Instead of Mary; still that name profanes, 
It should be simply 'Angel,' that's of all 
The only name that fits you. 
[23] 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Maey. 

Nay. Mary ! 
She was e'en the nearest Angel earth has seen. 
The Lord searched waiting centuries before 
He found, in all the world, the woman 
He dared trust to rear His Son. Say Mary always; 
'Tis the sweetest name 'neath heaven. But John 
Methinks is common. John? But John became 
The one beloved Disciple. That were name 
Enough to fit a king. But anyway, 
A common name is most uncommon 
In a man of worth. 

John. 

But this is heaven to stand 
Beneath your smile. 

Mary. 

Yes, but it cannot last; 
My little hour is spent. Would it might spin 
Its silent thread out into long, long years. — 
How can I back into my home again, 
And leave you now? Would we might ever here 
Be fixed in an eternal spring of love 
Inspired by breezes of perpetual joy. — 
I must not loiter or they may suspect 
I'm long in gathering these few fading flowers. 
And yet, how can I go? — cruel time, 
How can you part us thus, 'tis but a half -spent 
Minute since I wandered here. But I 
Must go. 

[24] 




I 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

John. 
Stay! Not so soon. 'Twill be long years 
Till night again throws its protecting mantle 
O'er us. 

Mary. 
But you will come ! Come quickly, night ! 

John. 
I hope this longing soon will cease. It pains 
Me we must meet like villainous thieves within 
The shielding darkness. Is there not some way 
We may break the secret? 

Mary. 

Would there were; 
But heaven is pleased to have us wait still longer. 
Say not 'good-bye/ say rather, 'welcome night.' 
I go, — not singly, for you're ever near. 

John. 
And I go mated, too. 

(Alone.) 
When will this waiting cease? 
When will the time be come 
For this airy angel to be my bride? 
For our wedded spirits, side by side, 
To labor together whatever betide? 

When will the time be come? 
Till then, my heart, be true as steel, 
Till then stay Love and set the seal 
That binds our hearts for woe or weal, 
Till the loitering time be come. 
[25] 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 



We weave in silence secretly 

The fabric of our lives, 
And no one knows what enters in, 

What thought at last survives; 
But when we feel the most secure 

And safe in hiding there, 
Some force tears wide the mystic web, 

And lays each woof thread bare. 






IV 



As when the blind plant, groping wildly for light, 
Finally bursts into bloom with the newness of day ; 
As when the young fledgeling first finds its lone voice, 
And the instinct within it sheds wildly its lay; 
As when the meek lily, with head drooping low, 
Holds aloft in its chalice a spherule of dew 
That the sun in its radiance resplendent shines 

through, 
And illumines all its soul with a rare crystal hue: 
So Mary tripped homeward reborn from above, 
With her whole soul aflame with the wild dream of 

love, 
Unknowing the gods from their seats in the sky 
Flung her every known grace as she lightly tripped 

by, 

Unknowing the arrows that pierced her hid breast, 
Protruded their points in her eyes' wild unrest. 
Ah strange, we can read in the uncovered eye 
The thoughts of the mind, howe'er hidden they lie; 
[26] 



k 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Ah strange, we can peep through their half-open 

portal, 
See the image that's stamped on the spirit immortal; 
Yet we carry forever, and always reveal 
Our soul in our eyes, though we would it conceal. 



You're home again? 



Mother. 

Mary. 

Yes, mother, I am home. 



I 



K 






Mother. 
I know not why, my daughter, but the hour 
Seemed long and lonely. 

Mary. 

Oh, it seemed so short, 
Scarce half so long as many minutes 
I have passed. 

Mother. 
I do not understand you, daughter, 
Hearts that love speak thus. 

Mary. 

Yes, and I love, — 
I love the flowers; methinks that I could spend 
Long years without a wasted minute thus 
Among the lovely blossoms of the wood. 
I would have stayed another hour, and yet 
Another and another till 'twas night, 
[27] 




THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Were it not for your anxious thought of me. 
I know not why you thus should be afraid. 

Mother. 
I fear there's other love than simply flowers; 
The love of flowers comes only when we love 
Some person e'en — 

Mary. 

I love you, mother dear, 
And father, — every one and everything. 

Mother. 
That's why I fear there's other love. 

Mary. 

But mother, 
You have ever feared. — I know not why, 
E'en when a little child, I heard you oft 
Tell father, when you knew not that I heard, 
That you oft feared for me. Why should you thus? 

Mother. 
You're ever in a dreamy lover's mood; 
Listless you glide about, you leave your books, 
Your music only adds its wings to these 
Your dreams; I'm sure you dream of someone, 

somewhere, 
That we do not know. 

Mary. 

I cannot lie; 
I will not say I do not dream, and oft. 
[28] 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 



ft 

I 



Pray, what unmarried woman is there 'neath 
The sun that does not dream of someone dearer 
Far to her than all things else? 

Mother. 

Then mother 
Ought to know, to still this longing fear. 

Mary. 

Not yet; enough it is to tell you, he 
Deserves the love I give him, but his name, 
I cannot tell you that. 

Mother. 

Could you, my daughter, 
Know the joy you'd bring, by telling me, 
You'd do it now. 

Mary. 

No, mother, if you cannot 
Trust what I have told you now thus far, 
That he deserves my love, then you would not 
Believe or cease to fear, were I to tell 
The fulJer secret. But you do me wrong 
To rob the only hidden chamber 
I have ever tried to keep concealed from you. 
But time will quite unfold its unknown depths, 
Much as the spring unfolds the rosebud's heart. 
But for the present, you will have to trust, 
And thus believe that he deserves my love. 





Mother. 
I would believe it, were it not for one — 
[29] 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Mary. 

Press me no further; this is far enough. 



a 



As when the blast of autumn comes unseen, 

And drifts the chilling storm, unheralded, 

O'er perfumed bowers, and hushes the glad songs 

Of all the birds, and wakes within each breast 

The instinct for a far-off summer clime; 

As when the lightning breaks, unseen, unheard, 

And tears the clinging ivy from the oak, 

And flings it helpless with a thousand wounds, 

Its hopes all crushed, its towering beauty gone; 

As when a mountain torrent rushes wild 

Across the blushing plain, and in its might, 

Uproots a helpless lily, drooping poised, 

And drops it dripping in a far-off dell: 

So troubles come unseen, unheralded, 

And from the inmost heart of hearts uproot 

The delicate and hidden springs of joy. 

So, Mary, all her being flushed with pain, 

Burning in anguish, passed into her room; 

Alone within her chamber mused and wept. 






! 



Mary. 
What will become of me? I could not tell 
A lie, e'en pressed thus hard. — Now mother knows, 
At least within her mind ; the secret's out ! 
Oh cruel hour that thus has robbed my life ! 
'Tis home no longer: had she only known, 
Rut guessed, the meaning of her wounding words, 
[30] 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

She would not thus have asked for all the world. 

Kind angels, why did you not somehow tell her? — 

Oh let me weep, for home is ended. 

Evermore; and yet how can it be? Must I 

Break both the hearts that thus have reared my life? 

I cannot do it. Who had ever thought, 

Though true, I must be false in this dark hour. 

I dare not tell my parents; they would hedge 

About me such a wall, that the rising sun 

Could find no crevice for his brightest beam; 

A nunnery were freedom side of this. 

I cannot tell them, though the one I choose 

Is worthy, for society uplifts 

Its warning finger in a scornful No; 

A chasm's drawn between his home and mine 

That I, with all my pleadings, cannot span. — 

Still he is mine! — But I am theirs! — Though not 

For life ! Oh let me drown my grief in tears. 

Alone within her chamber thus she wrought 

Her prayers and tears; there fought twixt home and 

love. 
And listlessly, her fingers wove a wreath 
Of wild flowers, nodding on their broken stems, 
As from the silence of their hidden depths, 
They smiled contentedly, though bruised and crushed. 
And in her soul she heard them sweetly say: 
'Be patient! Be contented with your lot! 
For faith and hope and love are never crushed. 
The smile that's mantled o'er with briny tears 
[31] 



vx 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Is worth a world of gay frivolity 
And lack of feeling. Sorrow melts the soul, 
Burns out the worthless dross, refines the gold/ 
And in her innocence, she kissed the flowers,- 
As one by one she saw each upturned smile, 
And answered to their silent brave appeal : 
'God's good. Ill ever love and hope and trust/ 



w 



[32] 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

VI 

There are joys in all our sorrows, 

There are thistles through our flowers, 
There are vales between our mountains, 

There are tests for all our powers; 
Happy he who meets his trials 

With a steadfast trustful eye, 
Happy he who through life's darkness 

Sees some star transfixed on high. 



I 



The matchless morn in May had quickly passed; 
And moment after moment slipped in silence 
Into the great unfinished record 
Of the past, as listlessly and all alone 
Our youthful lover roamed the quiet wood, 
And poured his tale of love into the upturned 
Violet's bell, and hid it there within 
The forest's deepest depth where none would find, 
And then passed on to hear it babbling ever 
At his side. And then he flung it deep 
Into the sturdy oak's staunch fearless heart; 
And as it rustled all its brawny being, 
Enkindled with the wild enraptured song, 
He felt relieved, and gaily passed, as one 
Who 'neath a cloudless sky runs from his shadow. 
Still in reverie, he wandered here and there, 
Until the shadows of the twilight came 
And woke him, — then he hastened breathless home. 
[33] 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Mr. Ayr. 
John, where have you been lingering all the day? 
You go about of late as though j^our thoughts 
Were ever on some day dream. But 'twill stop! 
This is your birthday, is it not? 

John. 

It is. 

Mr. Ayr. 
Then you're at last a man in years, though not 
In motive. I've a plan. 'Tis for your future. 
You must choose; you're at the parting paths. 
In brief, you now must settle down with me, 
Take share in my saloon; or else get out, 
Leave home and all you love! I'll have no more 
Of this, your worthless dreaming! 



John. 



Must I leave? 



« 



Leave home and mother? 



Mr. Ayr. 

No ! I did not say it. 

John. 
You same as said it, for of all things known, 
I'll never work at such a business, Sir! 

Mr. Ayr. 
Then get you out! You have no share in me 
Or mine. Your mother's made a mealy-mouthed 
And moral fool of you. 

[34] 







THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

John. 

No use of this. 
I would not work to ruin other lives, 
Whate'er the price it paid in greedy gold. 

Mr. Ayr. 

Then get you out and soil these tender palms ! 
You'll get this girlish silliness soon cured. 

John. 
Think you I cannot work? I've never asked 
You for a cent in all the years. I've made 
My money always; and could you but know 
What makes me idle now, you would not blame. 

Mr. Ayr. 

Some silly sickly love affair, that's it; 
I know you like a book! 

John. 

Yet cannot read 
Between the lines. — There's nothing you can share 
With me ; our natures are as opposite — 

Mr. Ayr. 

I'm mighty glad they are! But why these words? 
I've had enough of your soft lily-fingers. 
I'll to work. But mind you once for all, 
You'll get you out, unless you do my bidding! — 
But I will give you all the chance a boy 
Can ask; I'll share the half of all I own 
With you, if you'll accept. 

[35] 










THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 






John. 

Don't thus so tempt 
Me, for I could not work as you have planned 
E'en though you gave me all. 

Me. Aye. 

Then out! tonight's 
The last you'll ever lounge upon a bed 
Of mine ! Your mother's stubborn silliness 
Breeds this! Would you had senses that befit 
A man! I'm gone; ere I am back, decide. 
And if you dare say No, I'll say it too; 
You'll never put your form within this house 
Again, or I'll make jelly of your surly 
Mouth! You here! Decide ere I return. 

John. 
He's gone, — I'm glad he is. Would I were gone 
When he returns. I fear this sudden strain 
Will set him drinking more; returned, he'll have 
A fit of frenzy, thinking thus he'll force 
Me into being what I will not choose. 
But he can't do it! I'll be tripple steel! — 
But mother, can she stand this sudden shock? 
Maybe I ought to take his offer now 
For her dear sake. But she'd not have it so; 
She'd rather her good heart would break, than this. — 
And Mary, what, oh what of her! Tonight 
May be our last. But 'twill not. I'll not think. — 
So I must go! I'll boldly go!— But where? 
The world is large and cold and selfish ; I fear. — 

[36] 





















But I can work; I've worked, and can again. 

I can come back to mother oftentimes 

When he is gone. — But still, his threat is strong; 

And he is blunted so by drink, he'd kill me. — 

I'll have to leave the town and all I love; 

But I had rather heed the call of right, 

Although it wrings my heart and makes my world 

A wasting desert, than to choose the wrong 

And live in luxury on beds of ease. — 

mother, is it you? 

Mrs. Ayr. 

Yes, it is I. 
I've listened from my room to all you said. 
It pains me much to think that you must go; 
But I'm rejoiced to know you are a man 
Who dares now choose the right. 

John. 

You are so good, 
You are the guardian angel of my life. — 
But I must go! 

Mrs. Ayr. 
Yes, John, in haste, before 
He comes again. Let's to your room at once. 

John. 
Stay; not so soon! — I cannot go tonight. 

Mrs. Ayr. 
You must for my sake; he will soon return 
In raving wickedness to force his will. 
[37] 





^ 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

He's been determined many years to make 

You partner in his business when you came 

Of age. He would have had it sooner, 

But for me; our bargain was to let you choose. — 

I've strengthened my desires by prayer, and he 

Has tried to force his plans by wicked threats. 

I prayed all night you'd stand the test today. 

I know he will accuse me of foul play, 

Say I have been untrue, have forced you thus; 

But now I'm ready for the worst, if you 

But haste away. 

John. 

I cannot go tonight. 

Mrs. Ayr. 
You must not be more tender-hearted than 
Your mother. 

John. 
No, 'tis not that, but she — 

Mrs. Ayr. 

But who? 
John. 
My Love. 

Mrs. Ayr. 
Who is she? — but it matters not, 
The world is full of 'loves'. 

John. 

No, there's but one, 
But one in all the world for me. — Say but 
Tomorrow; any other time. 
[38] 




( 







THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Mrs. Ayr. 

But haste, 
The train will soon be due. 



John. 

But there's another 



s 



Ere the day awakes. 



Mrs. Ayr. 

But you must go 
On this, before he comes. Come to your room. — 
I have these years kept faith in God and you. 
Look, I have saved this thousand dollars 'gainst 
This hour, if you should choose aright. Take this, 
A birthday present, saved in secrecy 
From out the years. Be frugal in the spending, 
As I have been in the patient gathering. 

John. 
Mother, how can I live without your love ? 
In all my life, I have not seen its equal. 
But I must go ! My treasures one and all 
Are stowed away. — Ah no! they're in your hearts. 
But I must go! must leave you both! But I 
Will write you often, tell you my success! 
Your welfare ever will be on my heart. 
And if, perchance, he ever dies, then write; 
And I will take you to my home and nurse 
You in your age as tenderly as you 
Have nursed my youth. — A kiss, a parting kiss. 
Wipe not the tear let fall upon your cheek 

[39] 





GIFT 



WHITE 



Vj 



1 



By me. Think as it dries, I'll nevermore 
Forget your loving life of kindness. — 
I must go ! The evening shades have darkened 
Into night; and so my childhood happiness, 
To tears. 

Mrs. Ayr. 
May God be pleased to have us meet 
Again; 'twill then be joyous as it's sad 
Tonight. — Till then, 'good-bye'. And may the Lord 
Keep watch between us while we are apart. 
Who can measure the mother-love? 
Who? 

No one can save God above; 
No one! 

It's tried ofttimes 
In petty rhymes ; 

But the ocean's too shallow to dare compare, 
And the earth is too narrow and hollow and bare; 
Who must measure the mother-love? 
Who? 
God! 




THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 






VII 

When the baby bird's flown from its nest in the elm, 
And the sunshine peeps in on an empty abode, 
And the mother bird chirps to her mate at her side 
As together they dream by the long, lonesome road; 
There is something too deep for a tear to express, 
There is something too sacred for thought to explore, 
There is something now gone that they sigh to caress 
As they sink in the thought they shall nevermore 

bless, 
When the baby bird's flown from its nest in the elm. 



When the baby bird's flown from its nest in the elm, 
Has unknowingly broken its frail new-fledged wing, 
And can nevermore rise from its far away flight 
To return with the joy and the peace it would bring ; 
It is then that in heaven our God heaves a sigh, 
And all nature is sad and in tears moaneth low, 
It is then that the mother bird wishes to die, 
To be folded, unknowing, forever to lie, 
When the baby bird's flown from its nest in the elm. 



Mother. 
Has't come so soon to this? My husband, up!- 
The morn shall nevermore awake the earth 
As a sweet child from dreams. 'Twill evermore 
Be but a parched-up desert. She has flown! 
Is there no help! Can we not rescue her! 
[41] 





THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Father. 
What, wife, why this wild dream? 

Mother. 

Is't but a dream? 
A frenzied nightmare? — Then, may God be praised. — 
But 'tis not! Read this tear-stained note she left 
Within her chamber! Yes, 'tis true! She's flown! 
Is there no help? Can we not rescue her? 

Father. 
What, is it true? — We cannot rescue her. 
I see it all, — they're married ere the morn, 
That pales its rosy cheek in tears to tell 
Us this, could wake us. 

Mother. 

Oh! is't even so! 
The last hope gone! It can't be; God is Love! 
It cannot be! 

Father. 

It's very hard to bear. 
We cannot understand our God of Love, 
For sometimes He must lead us even through 
The valley and the shadow ere we see 
Our sins. I see it now ! Would I had seen 
It many selfish years ago. — And think, 
I once had in my hand the power to crush it, 
Had I but risen then and struck the blow. 
I saw no harm in it to me or mine ; 
[42] 




S; 



I 




u 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

That was my sin, and God has punished justly, 
For I denied I was my brother's keeper. — 
Oh, what have I done? 

Mother. 

You've sold her soul! 
Would I had only made you see what I 
Saw in a vision many years ago. — 
Mine's half the sin, for I, with all my might, 
Could have persuaded you. — Has't come to this? 

Father. 
You are too fair and honest in these words, 
For mortal woman ; yes, we both must share 
The burden equally, for doubly we 
Can bear the millstone that would break each heart, 
If borne alone. 

Mother. 

God, I know not 
If 'twill last. My heart is almost broken now. 
My hope has fled! Shall we not somehow try 
To rescue her and bring her safely home? 
Could we not bear her husband round our hearth, 
If she'd return? Let's bid them welcome home; 
Perchance, they'll come. 

Father. 
No, wife, — She'll come 'alone', 
If we but bide our time. Do you not see 
These tearstains here upon her parting note? 
That drunkard's son that has beguiled her thus, 
[43] 



SJ 



% 





WHITE ROSES 

Will soon betray her; then she'll come alone. 
Too true, she'll bring a bleeding, broken heart, 
And tears and taints of sin. 'Twill not be she, 
The joyous angel, flitting fairy-like 
Around, as once she did. — It can't be changed 
By us, nor can we bear the viper that 
Has thus so deadly bitten at our hearts. 

Mother. 
It would not be my way. But it may be 
The best. — time, come back to us again, 
Come ravel out the stitches we have woven, 
That we may now correct our sad mistakes, 
And weave aright the fabric of our lives. — 
Oh, would we had her back again! — Alas! 
I know not but this broken heart must cease; 
Its joy has fled, its hope is vainly crushed! 

Father. 
Don't say it, wife. Bear up ! You can for me ! — 
I know it's hard, almost beyond our wills. — 
But look! the roses snowy-white still bloom! — 
Here, take this nosegay, plucked with bleeding heart ; 
It is my vow that God and you and she 
Are all the chords this soul shall ever strike. — 
We'll stand together, though our wounds are deep; 
We'll stand together, though our backs do bend; 
We'll stand together, though our hearts are crushed! 



Standing together when joys overcome us, 
Standing together when sorrows benumb us, 
[44] 





THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 



1 



Standing together in sunshine and rain ; 
God is so good in his wonderful wisdom, 

All that He gives us is infinite gain, 
Sharing our joys they are evermore doubled, 

Sharing our sorrows thus rends them in 
twain; 
Loving is ever the law of our being; 

Selfishness always our infinite pain. 



I 




THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 



V 



VIII 

In many a sorrow there's much of joy; 
For many a wound there is healing balm; 
Every shadow is skirted with sunshine serene; 
Every tear mirrors back the glad warmth of some joy. 
But apart, in the silence, uncheered and alone, 
With the chill of a sadness, deep-seated in pain, 
Dwell those who wait late for a vanished face, 
Long lost in the distance of fleeting years; 
Neglecting their ninety and nine waiting pleasures, 
They grope in the depth of their one lengthening 

shadow, 
Apart and alone in their sickening sorrow. 

Mother. 
Yes, husband, it is just a year today, 
Oh such a long, long year, since John's old mother 
Died in sorrow. How it pains my heart 
To think of her again. She was so good. 
After her husband died, she ever waited 
Patiently. Each day she slowly trudged 
Down to the office for the long expected 
Letter, ever saying 'It will come, 
'Twill surely come today.' And thus she ever 
Said, and ever trudged along alone, — 
Never, it seemed, lost faith that John would write. 

Father. 
Yes, wife, I well remember the last time 
She stopped to see if we had heard from them. 
She told us o'er her parting scene with John 
[46] 



Ml 





THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 






I 



How he had promised he would write each week, 

About his tear let fall upon her cheek; 

She told it all again. Her faith in John 

Was ever strong. She always knew he'd write 

If he but had the chance. — 'Twas thus she died. 

Mother. 
The last she spoke was in a fervent prayer, 
A prayer for him, her darling boy. — She's dead; 
And so we soon will be, unless our long 
Lost girl returns. Our time is not far distant.' — 
Many a time and oft, we've prayed in tears, 
Prayed daily she might come again to cheer 
Us in our age, if haply she were living, 
And something always tells us that she is. 

Father. 
We've heard it in the crowing of the cock, 
That many times stands boldly on the step, 
And seems to say, she's coming, coming soon. 
And many a time the birds seem to forecast 
Her quick return. And many a time in dreams 
And nightmares we have seen her, always 
It seems is coming, still is held away. 

Mother. 
And thus we've prayed and waited long, long years, 
Until the frosts of time with silvered age, 
Have brought the haggard look of longing pain, 
Have brought the quivering step and broken voice 
And withered form, — have brought almost despair. 
[47] 





THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 



Father. 
And still we've prayed and waited evermore. — 
As for a much expected midnight guest, 
The match is always ready on the chair 
Beside our bed, if haply we may hear 
Her longed-for rap upon the waiting door. — 
And many a time we've had it in our minds 
To search for her ; but something ever tells 
Us she will come, come soon, ere we could search. 

Mother. 
And many a time we've had it in our minds 
To give her up in deep despair and lay 
Us down in anguish, lay us down in death. 

Father. 
But something ever tells us she will come. 

Mother. 
Yes, think the signs we had but yesterday, 
Signs that we think are never known to fail, 
For everything I touched was sure to fall; 
Her dish, the last that's left of all she had, 
Slipped from my hand into a ruined heap. 
All told that some one, e'en our darling girl, 
Would come, would surely come, within an hour. 
And still, the day has slowly lingered past, 
And still the night is gone in weary dreams, 
Has brought naught but another waiting day. 

Father. 
But somehow, I believe she'll come 'today'; 
Signs should be good, methinks, at least two days. 
[48] 



Jj 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Mother. 
Ah, so we've thought so many, many days. 
If all the signs failed yesterday, she will 
Not come today. 

Father. 
The morning church bell rings. 

Mother. 
We'll lock the door, although we seldom do ; 
But since she did not come home yesterday, 
She surely will not come today. 

Father. 

What if 
Perchance she comes and finds it locked? — We go. 

Mother. 
Ah, we have waited all the years, — so long! 
Our heads are drooped beneath their weight of care, 
Our hearts are mellowed by the frosts of sorrow. 
Has God at last, you think, forsaken us? 
We've prayed without cessation, prayed for years, 
That we might see her darling face again, — 
But once! Is God thus ever deaf and blind 
To this, our earnest wish and heartfelt prayer? 

Father. 
Who knows but it is 'gainst His will? Who knows? 
But she is happier where she is, than we? — 
Maybe her beauty and her purity 
Have held him from his drunkenness, who knows? 
I've always thought that hell itself would gape 
[49] 




f li 



I 



WHITE ROSES 

A sober breath at sight of her. Who knows, 
But they may own a happy home, and dwell 
With children molded in her image, 
Prattling ever in perpetual mirth and joy? 

Mother. 
It cannot be. Had she been ever happy, 
We would have known it. Wretchedness and sin 
Are all that ever separate two souls 
That once have loved. I have had many dreams 
Of late. I've seemed to see a blot upon 
The face of spring. A hideous monster 
That scared the birds until they left our trees, 
That even veiled the sunlight from our porch. — 
It seemed 'twas ours. — If dreams are ever true, 
She'll come! — And yet we've always thought she'd 

come, — 
The first year was a century through waiting. 
How slow the time has poked and lagged. Methinks 
Eternities of bliss were not so long 
As these expectant years. 

Father. 

You've long borne up, 
My faithful wife. Be not thus sad. Cheer up ! 
Our years of tears are nearly past. Cheer up ! 
She'll come; and then one minute will repay 
For all these waiting years. And then in peace, 
With her return, we well can live and die. 
She'll nurse our age as we have nursed her youth. — 
[50] 



% 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Cheer up ! For see ! the trees are all a- joy 
With winged song ! 

Mother. 
I'm glad we're here at last ; 
The walk has tired me much. We'll ask for strength 
To last another weary waiting week. 

(Music within as they enter) 
There is joy for all our sorrow, 
There is rest for all our care, 
There is hope for all our longing, 
There is sunshine everywhere; 
For our God is good, He loves us, 
And each burden, rolls away, 
With sweet peace, the gift of heaven, 
Cheers us ever on our way. 






e 



[51] 




THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

IX 

As a wreck that is tossed on a rock-riven main, 
With its timbers all shattered, its cordage in twain, 
With the compass wrenched loose from its place at 

the prow, 
With the pilot's eye closed in his death-stricken brow, 
When the engine has breathed its last life-giving 

power, 
And the captain lies dead at his post by the tower; 
So sin, with its storms and its sickening waves, 
With its mutterings and groanings and dark-hidden 

caves, 
Blows ns far from our course, into desolate graves. 

Mary. 
Yes, here I come, come staggering home at last, 
Besmirched in sin, e'en to its farthest depths. 
In faded bonnet and in worn-out gown 
Come trailing down the darkest filthiest alley 
From the depot, fearing lest someone may now 
Trace out these muddy faded features, know 
'Tis I. Come back at last; alas, too late! — 
See how the pigeons turn and fly away ; 
Ah, once they used to coo upon my shoulder. 
See the children run in fear and hide; 
They used to run to meet me with a smile, 
And have my latest story. See! the birds 
Hush their glad songs and scream in fear at me, 
And fly away. — Yes, here I come again, 
Come knocking on the scarce remembered door, 

[52] 



V! 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Come knocking as a tramp at this back door. — 

I'm glad they are not here, the door is locked ; 

I almost wish that they were dead and gone, 

But I will wait here on the porch a while, 

And think it out again, the dream of youth. — 

There in the old accustomed place, still stands 

The rosary. There, with its pure white roses 

Nodding in the breeze, shut off from all 

The wide wild tumult of the wicked world, 

In innocence and purity, it sheds 

Its perfume, tinctured from the crystal dew. 

Ah, beauteous rose, with pure and stainless hue, 

Once I was pure and stainless, e'en as you, 

Once I was fair and innocent, once wild 

And free, once I was glad and happy, 

Babbling ever in glee. My fingers used to train 

You into wreaths for my fair sunny brow, 

I used to wear you on my snowy bosom. 

I will be a child again e'en now, will pluck 

A bunch of blossoms, wreathe them with my smiles, 

And crown my wearied brow. 

Then dreamily, 
She sorted out the fairest of the fair, 
Returned and sat upon the porch to weave 
The wreath. — She woke, the roses woke her 
From her dream; a thorn was in her finger — 
And her flesh. — O'ercome with wicked imagery 
Of sin, her hopes all vanished now, she pulled 
The pallid petals from their thorny stems 
And flung them stained and bleeding on the ground. 

[53] 







Sir?^* " 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Mary. 
Oh horrors! I can never stand this strain, 
This fearful strain, this sickening strain, 
This mottled mockery. 

And thus she swooned. 



The wages of sin is death, 
And the wages of pleasure, pain; 
The normal life is the life of right, 
That toils for others with matchless might, 
Its wages is endless gain. 




m^. 







THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 





The spring had come again, with all its heavenly bliss. 
The birds, the winged angels of the earth, 
With their return, had drawn another thread 
Across the woof of years. The flowers unveiled 
Their fairy faces to the coaxing sun, 
And whispering spread the season's melodies. 
The world, in all, was one unclouded smile, 
In all, was just the same as it had been 
So many, many years before. But they, 
So sad to think, were both so changed, that now, 
They hardly knew the season of the year. — 
Would it were winter! — But they came at last, 
Locked-arms, came up the old front steps, 
Stopped just a minute in the waiting room 
To pray again that she might come, their long 
Departed, darling, angel girl. The mother stepped 
Into the kitchen, with her thoughts perplexed; 
The porch door opened hard, as though it pitied 
Her, and dreaded much this fearful shock. 
She saw. — Stood there transfixed as marble 
While she raised the sunken eye, retouched 
The lips with ruby, brushed away the furrows 
From the forehead, plumped the wasted cheeks, 
Replaced their roses and their smiles, recaught 
Again the tangled sunbeams in the faded 
Hair. — Then fully recognized, and screamed. 

Mother. 
Is't come to this ! I did not see. — 'Twas but 
A monstrous dream! — It cannot be! This! this! 
[55] 




THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

This once most perfect form ! this golden hair ! — 

It cannot be! — Why did I live thus long? 

Is this the prayer I prayed? — not this! — my prayer? 

God, I did not pray ! I never prayed 
For this! 

Father. 
What now ? Is this a frenzied fit ? — 

1 do not see aright! — 'Tis but the blot 

You saw within your dream! — Are these the curls 
Of that once sun -lit brow? Now faded thus? 
Is this the forehead that once graced your breast? 
Now stained with sin? Are these the lips? now 

parched ? 
That once were rubies red? And these the cheeks, 
That were in all Aurora's blush ? Now thus, 
Thus hollowed, creased, and marred with sin? 

Come in! 
We'll lock the door, nor claim this mottled clay! 
She is no more our child, our darling girl! 



Mother. 
There, husband, we have shut and locked the door. 
Oh, death with all its rankling sorrows, would 
Be peace to this worn wasted form, that once 
So like an angel shed perfumes. — 
Is't come to this! Must we in our old age 
Deny a rescue to the wreck we've caused 
In part, through our neglect to clear away 
The hidden rocks? We must not thus so do. 
[56] 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Is not the Lord more merciful than we? 
We neither one are fit to throw a stone. 






t 



Father. 
Have we not done the very best we knew ? 

Mother. 
The best we knew; but not the best we should 
Have known. 

Father. 
It's hard to cast her on 2 thus, now, 
When she's come back, a wounded bleeding lamb, 
Beside the sheep-fold, but to die with those 
She loves. — I cannot help to wound her worse. — 
But shall we bring her in and nurse her now? 

Mother. 
She is our flesh and blood, let's bring her in ; 
The sun has parched too long her wasted form, 
And fevered brow. 

Father. 
Let's bring her in. — God knows, 
And God alone, the agony of this 
Hard hour, of our life's disappointed hopes. — 
The door is open. Look you on these rags, 
These features so defaced. — But see, she wakes, — 
Oh, why does she not sleep ! 

Mary. 

Is this again 
A drunken fever of debauchery? 
It cannot be. The stench of belching hell? 

[57] 










Hell never paints the likeness of this sight. — 
Are these the only tattered remnants left? 
These feebled parents? these who reared my life 
In luxury in laps of ease? And this 
The porch, in years agone that was my world? 
Would it had ever been, and still could be. 

Father. 
See how she brightens up. 

Mother. 

The old look comes 
Again. She is our own, our darling girl. 

Mary. 
Undone am I! Alas! why have I thus 
Subverted life, deserted friends and home! — 
Speak, mother, father, can you ever take 
This wasted, hell-wrecked form within your door? — 
I know I should not ask it. 

Mother. 

Yes, daughter, this 
Has been our constant prayer through all the years, 
To see your winsome face at home again, 
Again before we slept in death. 

Mary. 

Is this 
The sound of mortal voice that now I hear? 
Oh, no, it cannot be; this is too sweet. 
I have not heard its like in all the years, 
[58] 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

The slavish years of sin. How can I look 
You in the face, I but deserve your scorn. 

Mother. 
Come, father, let's into the house with her. 
This is of all the burdens in the world 
Most precious in our hands. Be careful lest 
We pain her that we love. 

Mary. 

Ah, woe is me! 
You'll never see the answer to your prayers ; 
This face is mottled with the stains of sin! 

Father. 
Stop here within the kitchen. Bring them out, 
Her clothes that in her bureau hang. Put on 
The finest gown. Wash off the stain of years, — 
And I'll into the other room and wait, 
And think that she is winsome, pure and fair, 
Will think this but a mockery, a dream. 

Mary (alone). 
Has it come to this ! It surely is not true: — 
Down, frightful devils, from your slimy caves ; 
You cannot rob me this life's one last joy 
To live again my childhood o'er. I'll live 
It even though hell quakes to its farthermost limits. 

Father (alone in parlor). 
It's all as 'twas the day she left us here 
To weep, and wait her longed-for coming home. 
[59] 



U 






THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

What will she say, when this again she sees, 
This room we've never changed? — Yet we're 

changed. — 
Life's but a fraud, to think what might have been 
Our joy and happiness through all these years.- 
Life as it's lived, at best's but mockery, 
A discord played upon a harp untuned, 
Each string but catching up a tearful tone 
Of some long-hoped-for joy that's crushed 

dead. — 
We move forever 'twixt two worn-out words, 
Surprise and disappointment; this is life. 
Yet God is love ; He tries to spare our pains, 
He teaches us to know and live the truth, 
To put aside the things that rob our lives. 
He cannot fathom why we are so blind 
And deaf to all the past has ever taught, 
As not to put an end to this in life 
That nurtures hell and wantonness. 

Mother. 

She comes ! 
This is the answer to our prayer of years ; 
Her face, transfigured now in youthful form 
And childish beauty, — this is home again. — 
Here, take this easy chair. 

Mary. 

Have I thus changed? 

Father. 
It saddens me ! They say that ere the spirit 
[60] 



all 



u 



and 



I 






I 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Takes its flight, sweet angels hover near, 
And kiss e'en fallen mortals back to youth, 
Retouch the image marred by age and sin, 
That God may know the child, returning home. 

Mary. 
And this the room? It all is as it was! 

Father. 
Yes, we have kept it thus with careful hands 
Throughout the longing years of pain, we've waited 
Ever ready your return, in prayer. 

Mary. 
Has sin thus so deceived me with the thought 
Of banishment, if I returned to you? — 
But wait, I'd sing again the olden song, 
We sang together many years ago: 

' 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!' 

There that will do. Alas ! the frosts of time 
Have quite undone us both; all's discord now. 
These strings that once were fanned by melody, 
Are harsh, this throat is hoarse with sinful life. 

Mother. 
No, daughter, this was heavenly concord quite. 
This old piano's waited long your touch, 
For it has never sounded since you left. 
[61] 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 



Mary. 

Nor has this soul struck on its finer chords, 

Since fate has handed it unto the ways 

Of sin, since I have left you here alone 

And followed up my fiery appetites. 

But all this mocks me! — Down, ye hellish dreams! — 

Is this my picture on the wall? 

Mother. 

Yes, you, 
It is the only thing we've added since 
You left. We could not have you here, and so 
We've had you there. It's ever been the angel 
Of our home. 

Mary. 

Ah, it is long since I 
Have looked like this. — I fear — down hellish 

forms ! — 
You think I'll ever look like this again? 

Father. 
Yes, sweeter far than this, for there's in store 
An heritage eternal to ascend 
The yawning abyss formed by sin's deceit. 

Mary. 
I know not, for I see strange fiery beasts, 
And hellish forms, where'er I look. I fear — 
I fear that this upon the wall is more 
Than I can ever hope to be again. 
My mind is blunted, and my soul is sick, 
[62] 



I 




THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 









My feet are shackled, broken are my wings, 

Seared are my vitals, polluted is my flesh. 

Oh could I fly as once I flew, Fd fly — 

i 

Father. 

But those who cannot fly must walk, and those 

Who cannot walk must crawl. 

Mary. 

How can I walk? 
I cannot even crawl, — I dare not look 
At God's stern awesome face, for fear He'll strike 
Me dumb for such blasphemy. 

Mother. 

Do you not know 
The story of the maid in Holy Writ, 
Whom men in righteous wrath, would fain have 

stoned ? 
But when the Saviour heard, He sweetly said, 
Let him that hath not sinned, throw first his stone ; 
And then, when they were gone, He said to her, 
Go, too, in peace, and sin no more. 

Mary. 

A ray 

Of hope, above my awful writhing sea of sin. 
That maid am I ! Those self -same words I heard 
This morn; I had forgotten them till now. 
That's how it comes I'm here. 0, had I heard 
Them many years ago. 'Tis hard for me, 
Thus steeped in sin, to hear. The awful din 
[63] 




V 



VJ 



1 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Of writhing spirits almost drives me wild. — 
Down, down! ye hellish beasts! I dimly see 
You vanquished. Yet you rise again to fight. — 
Would there were mission ladies everywhere! 
Would I could live again my life. Fd go 
Into the dankest jaws of hell, and draw 
From out their sickening depths, lost angels, 
Such as I have ever been.' — But I am now 
Aweary; will you lay me down to rest, 
And turn the couch so I can see the face 
I wore when I was but a peaceful child? — 
There, that will do. My head feels cooler now. 
Would I had not defaced the image there 
Upon the wall. — 

Mother. 

Who comes? 

John (in semblance, an old umbrella mender). 

I heard a voice, 
The voice of all the stringed melodies 
Most musical. 

Father. 
Stand back, you villain monster! 
Speak what you are that dares thus come to rob 
Us of the only hour we've had in years. 

John. 

I come to speak with her that was my wife. 

Father. 
Stand back, you heartless villain ! 
[64] 




THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Mary. 

Cease, father, thus. — 
Are those the hazel eyes that once looked out 
Beneath a careless curl in mirth? 

John. 

Ah, so ! 

Those days, — alas, they're gone ! those heavenly days ! 
Who then would dare have prophesied me thus, 
In semblance, an umbrella mender bowed 
With grief? 

Father. 
Wife here, did prophesy far worse, 
The worst that's been, when years agone, you were 
The hellish infant of your father's home. 
Get out! you scurvy villain, devilish thief, 
That robbed this household of its costliest pearl! — 
Get out ! before I strike ! 

Mary. 

Cease, father, thus. — 
You rob me of the only joy that's left. 
You shock my dizzy brain. It was not he 
That thus you now behold, who robbed your hearth, 
It was not he that left the old home cold 
And cheerless. No, not he! He was my lover. 
We two were born but for each other's joy. 
As giant timbers, brought from distant hills, 
Are mated for the ship, so we were made 
Each other's counterpart in heaven. Ah, say 
[65] 






\l 




THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

It not. It was not he that robbed our home. — 
'Twas licensed whisky! licensed brothels! not he. 
But why this waiting? I must know, e'en now, 
Your years, since long ago we parted fair 
To meet thus foul. 

John. 

The story's hard to tell. 
I wish you had not asked it ; I had rather 
Trace the devil now through hell, than this 
Sad sickening story of my years of pain. 
But I will tell it through, will make it short. 
Yet, I had rather you should never know 
This wretched misery. — You knew I killed 
A villain — 

Father. 
Get you out! no murderer- 



I 



Mary. 



Cease, father! 



John. 
Who had drugged me for my money? 
This was the only glass I ever thought 
To drink. — The last and only glass I've drunk. — 
You know I told you when I saw you last, 
That he had pledged to help me get some work; 
It was a friendly glass; 'twas drunk for you, 
Drunk to secure his closer friendship, 
And through that the work, to keep our treasure 
Till the coming time when we'd return again 
[66] 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 



To this old town, as soon as we believed 
Our parents' peevish anger would admit. — 
You heard? 



Heard this? 
But on! be quick! 



Mary. 
Why, no! 



Oh horrors! 



John. 
You had not heard it? 
Then I wish I had it safe away behind 
My closed lips again. But it is told. — 
The villain's brother, then, a bribed police, 
Accomplice to the bloody crime begun, — 
It makes me crave his blood to think of him! — 
Took me in haste to trial, and in his greed, 
Divided with the court my every cent: — 
Thus, I was sentenced to imprisonment 
For life. I had no friend but you. They said 
You'd heard, had cursed the day you'd looked on me, 
Had flown in safety home. 



Mary. 
Would that I had only heard! 



Oh horrors ! 



John. 

We had not been 
A week within the city, as you know. — 
The rest's surmised. 'Tis toil and toil and toil 
Through years of dull monotony. These hands, 
Behold these calloused hands, if this you doubt, 
[67] 





THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

And this the muscle of my sinewy arm; 

They are the only testimony, now, 

To this, the truth. — Years came and went in sickening 

Silence. I would have died, but for the thought 

Of you, and of my angel mother. 

Mary. 
Oh worthy husband, this but proves the trust 
I placed in you long years ago ! — But on. 

John. 
At last, when long and weary years had robbed 
The flush and glow of youth, when toil had bowed 
This rugged back, had shattered all these nerves, 
Had crushed this hopeful will, then came my chance, 
The one hour of my life. A fire broke out 
Within the prison, near my place of toil ; 
I worked with giant strength and fought it down; 
See, here, the scars upon my face and hands. 
And then, at length, the longed-for pardon came — 
But e'er it came, 'twas just a year today, 
I felt, somehow that mother died. A silent 
Message told the very hour. When freed 
A month ago, I hastened home again, 
And trudged up yonder hill to drop a tear 
And lay some blood-red roses on her grave. 
This done, I hastened here and hid myself 
Where years agone, I waited you so oft. 
I lay concealed a day and night to catch 
A glimpse of you. I rose amazed at last 
At what I heard, for in that morning prayer, 
[68] 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 









I heard this aged mother raise her voice 

In hopeful pleading, asking she might live 

Until her long-lost darling girl should come 

Again safe home to her. The first desire 

Of all my life was now to bring you home. 

I hastened to the city that same day, 

And scarce since then have slept three hours a night. 

I searched the city, scanning every face 

In all the throbbing crowds. I stood at morn 

And noon and night upon the street and watched, 

Each day a different street; accoutered thus, 

And making low weird tones to catch each eye, 

Until I'd searched each street. At last, by chance, 

I happened past a mission of the slums. 

I asked if they had seen or heard of you. 

They told me but an hour before, they'd sent 

You home — I could not wait, I felt anew 

The pulse of youth through all my being start. 

I hastened to the depot, breathless paced 

The floor — I could not wait — the hour seemed years. 

The train drove snail-like, till at last I'm come 

As thus I stand. 

Mary. 
Oh horrors! has't come to this! 
Most noble husband, has it come to this! 
Would I could tell my story; but I see 
More hellishness displayed, than can be told. 
We simple village folk were food for sharks, 
For blood-suckers, for men of shameless sin! 
I see it all ! They told me you had fled, 
[69] 



1 




r#/gf\fe?^ 




f 



I 



Had cruelly deserted me for drink. 

I never half believed it, never ! though, 

They took me in as loving friends, they said, 

Gave me protection in a time of need; 

Then took advantage of my broken heart. 

I was so pure that all my world was flowers; 

I knew not such a word as villain then. 

They must have drugged my food ; I'm certain now 

They did, for I oft since have seen it done ; 

I was not half myself through hellish dreams. 

They gave me liquor by degrees, to drown 

My pain. Bad led to worse, till I became 

A fallen woman. Then they mocked me 

By the nickname, 'Fallen Angel!' We were way- 

layed ; 
'Twas all the heartless plot of commercialized vice. 



ft! 



John. 



Yes, it was even so ! 



Father and Mother. 

Can this be true? 
Can we so long have lived in ignorance? 

Mary. 
Hedged in by hell and shame, I lived long years 
In deepest sin, nor dared return again 
To this, my home. At last, my beauty gone, 
A burned-out crater, I was driven forth, 
Too black for e'en the blackest hell to hide. 
Thus driven forth, half drunk and poorly clothed 

[70] 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 



I 



v 



I wandered here and there, without an aim, 
Without a hope or care, — a mummied devil. 
'Twas early Sunday morning, e'en this morning. 
The church bells pealed their loft}^ chimes, but not 
For such as I. Had I but even tried 
An entrance anywhere, they would have belched 
Me forth in holy horror. — So I walked, 
Or loitered rather, every door in all 
The city barred again my frightful form, 
No one in all the crowds to whom I dared 
But speak. I know not how it came, I chanced 
To loiter past a Mission, when I caught 
A strain of music, an old song I'd sung 
When but a child upon my mother's knee. 
I know not how I came to see again 
The old home and be in my happy teens; 
But ere I knew, I stood within the door. 
And then the music ceased, and I again 
Was what you see. Before I could retreat, 
A mission lady held me by the arm 
And had my story, asked about my home, 
Then told me o'er the Bible story, mother, 
You retold a little while ago. 
She begged me let her send me home; and so 
My story ends, thus blotted, marred and stained. 
I'm dying now; yet there's an awful debt, 
And ours is not the only one. There are 
Vast thousands thus ensnared. I see, alas! 
A wail arise, so black it hides the sun. 
From every village, maidens lily-pure 
[71] 





THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Go forth in innocence to fall a prey 

To the cities' merciless greedy maw of vice; 

From every village, men in the pride of youth 

Go forth to be swindled out of their money and 

morals ; 
From every village, wails on wails arise 
From waiting disappointed lonely parents. 

John. 

Oh that I might but live to see the day 
When this which robbed me of my wife and home, 
When this that made my life a hell, is gone, 
When each man knows and does his little part 
In lifting those that are debased and wrecked, 
When selfishness has had its restless day, 
When love of God and man rules all the world! 

Mary. 
Oh that the world might read again the tale 
Of Cain and Abel, till its heart did thaw; 
Oh that it might but read in us the fallen, 
The lesson that must some day soon be learned, 
The lesson of protecting sympathy. — 
I'm dying now, so 'tis no time to talk 
Of what must come as sure as God is God; 
I must prepare the future. Husband, out 
A little while. I have a dying wish 
That sears my very soul as coals of fire. 
You shall come back to see me die. I'll have 
Them call you. Think till then upon your future. — 
He is gone! — Oh that we both were young again! — 
[72] 




THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

But, father, mother, hear me in my last 
Most earnest wish. When I was young, I could 
Have had whate'er I asked, but foolish then, 
I did not ask the things I should. 

Mother. 

You are 
Our darling angel yet; ask what you will, 
We'll grant it. 

Mary. 

Oh did I hear aright? 
Then death is boundless joy! — I hesitate, 
I'm now almost afraid to speak my last 
Desire. I know you'll think it very hard 
To grant. 

Parents. 
As parents we will hear. 



Mary. 



And grant? 



Parents. 
And grant ! 

Mary. 
Then if 'tis granted, life will not 
In all be wasted. Hear me now. How much 
In money, house and land, have we? 



Father. 

Ten thousand dollars, — why? 
[73] 



About 










I 



v 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Mary. 

Oh, is't so much ! 
I only wish 'twas twenty. 

Father. 

You can't ask 
We give it him out there? 

Mary. 

No, father, far 
From that. — But had I lived till you were dead, 
And been obedient to you, then I 
Had been the only heir; you grant it so? 

Father. 
You, daughter, are the only heir. 

Mary. 

Then 'tis well. 
I ask you now, and God, Himself, I know, 
Has prompted this my dying wish; I ask 
You give your all, in money, house and land, 
To found a refuge in the city slums, 
Next where I slaved my life away. 'Twill help 
To raise, in time, so many straying girls, 
And work a world of good. I'd have it named, 
The 'Fallen Angel,' not in pride, but that 
The section of the city may recall 
In it my wasted life, and thus be led 
To sympathy of it through me. I'd like 
You see it founded ere you die, and have 
John help in the labor. 

[74] 




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THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 



\Jj 






Father. 
'Tis difficult, this wish! 
God knows, that all one's property is hard 
To give. — How is it, wife? 

Mother. 

Your will and God's 
Be done! 

Father. 
Yes, daughter, your last dying wish 
Is granted, and at length shall be fulfilled. 

Mary. 
Then God be blessed, for in this dying hour, 
I now can look Him in the face, and say, 
My life, while 'twas a sacrifice upon 
The Nation's altar, for the Nation's sin, 
Has not been lived in vain. I see adown 
The future years, that growing good shall come. 
I would that I had many lives to thus 
So give in death! — Now call my husband in. — 
Your future? 

John. 
I do not know, I cannot tell. 
I am an outcast, hated everywhere; 
The mark of Cain is on my scowling forehead. 
The only friends I ever had in life 
Are now both gone, with this your coming death. 
The brand of murder is upon my soul, 
And every one is 'gainst me. Oh that I, too, 
Might die with you. But God seems pleased to have 
[75] 





THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Me live to drink the bitterest dregs, — enough 
For both our lives, for I was most to blame 
In all this pain. I am the rankest weed 
That ever grew upon this sin-cursed earth. 

Father. 
'Tis not so bad; we have it planned for you. 

John. 
Be quick and tell me, for I am willing 
To do anything, live anywhere you say, 
Go back to prison, if you'll have it so. 

Father. 
You are to live with us, to take her place 
Within our home. Together, we shall live, 
And spend our years in working out her wish. 
Our all, our every dollar, goes to found 
A place of refuge in the city, where 
Perchance, some wasting life may be reclaimed. 

John. 
Oh this is kindness, magnified a thousand 
Times. How can I ever half repay it? 
These hands are all that I can call my own. 

Mary. 
But I must go. The call has come. And as 
I slowly go, get down again the Book, 
The Book you gave me years ago. Give't John 

[76] 



5* 



»l 



WHITE ROSES 

To be his daily friend and guide. Now open 

It where a golden curl lies pressed. 'Tis mine; 

It grew when I was young and fair to see. 

That Psalm was once most favored of them all. 

I read it last the night I ran away; 

See, there, the tear-stains that were made that hour.- 

You have the place, now read. 

John. 

Wait yet a little while. 
I want to pledge you I will meet you there 
In death. I pledge it now, as by this Book 
I swear my life, my all, my every deed 
And thought. 

Father. 
Yet wait! the roses, snowy-white! 



1 






John. 
That land will be all joy. — But think ! the debt, 
The debt of our lost lives must yet be paid 
By some one, sometime, somewhere. 

Mary. 
Meant you a while ago you killed the man 
Who met us at the station, who secured 
Us rooms ? Who later said he tried to get 
You work ? 

John. 
Yes, him I killed. 

[77] 





®Mm 



THE GIFT OF WHITE ROSES 

Mary. 

The more you were 
Deceived. He 'twas who forced me be his slave. — 
But all is well with God. 



I 
I 



Father. 

Daughter, here 
Upon your breast, these roses snow-white; 
They are my pledge that we will keep our vow. 
They're plucked with longing heart, that's crushed 

with pain, 
With heart that waits and prays through coming 

years, 
The curse may be removed, that gives its all 
In house and land to help displace the sin ! 

Mary. 
Thanks, now I die in peace. You give your roses ; 
I, my lily-white life. — And John, make this 
The solace of your future years. — Now read. 

John. 
The Lord is my shepherd; 
I shall not want. 

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures : 

He leadeth me beside the still waters. 

He restoreth my soul: 

He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness 

for his name's sake. 
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the 
shadow of death, 
[78] 






I will fear no evil; 

For thou art with me : 

Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. 

Thou preparest a table before me 

In the presence of mine enemies: 

Thou hast anointed my head with oil; 

My cup runneth over. 
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the 

days of my life: 
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. 

Father. 
Peace! Peace! Our "Fallen Angel" is asleep! 
Let's down upon our knees, before the Lord, 
And call His blessing on our future task. 

The End. 






[79] 



I WOULD NOT WORK TO RUIN 
OTHER LIVES, WHATE'ER THE 
PRICE IT PAID 1N T GREEDY GOLD 



THE NORMAL LIFE IS THE 
LIFE OF HI G H T , THAT 
TOILS FOR OTHERS WITH 
MATCHLESS MIGHT, ITS 
WAGES IS ENDLESS GAIN 



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